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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473921">XOXOXO—A Dedicated, Too Sequel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn'>Polly_Lynn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dedicated [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Castle (TV 2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jealousy, Male-Female Friendship, Partners to Lovers, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:47:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,576</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23473921</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was love at first sight for him. Really. It’s stupid. It’s cliché. It’s childish, schmaltzy, revisionist history. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kate Beckett &amp; Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Josh Davidson, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Tom Demming, Kate Beckett/Will Sorenson, Richard Castle/Gina Cowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dedicated [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688710</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>XOXOXO—A Dedicated, Too Sequel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N: A few years ago, I wrote this schmoopy mess. I had always thought about writing a brief sequel. Recently r commented on the story, saying it was about time for the sequel. So, here it kind of is. If you don’t want to read the first story, all you really need to know is that Castle insists that Beckett give him a business card at the end of The Dead Pool (3 x 21) because he’s jealous that she gave Alex Conrad one.  </p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was love at first sight for him. Really. It’s stupid. It’s cliché. It’s childish, schmaltzy, revisionist history. </p><p></p><div class="data lP">
  <p></p>
  <div class="body hasMarkup">
    <p>But it’s also the truth. </p>
    <p>He’d run head long at it right away, that instantaneous, earth-shaking desire. He had launched himself at it with no method, no finesse whatsoever, because–hey, a one-night stand, right? Maybe a once-in-a-while-night stand if he could manage to play his his cards right. But that’s what he’d figured on, because he was so over the very idea of being in love by the time he met her. </p>
    <p>And then it had simply been a matter of sticking around to meet the challenge. She had proven to be formidable opponent, and honor demanded that he give it his all—that he not fight the duel left-handed, as it were. He’d held on to those delusions a while, variations on a theme that had served him well for a good long while—intermittently at least.  </p>
    <p>There had been times, even from early on, that the truth had surfaced, painfully and otherwise—with the throb of empathetic misery the first time she told him her mother’s story, and the sharp sizzle of jealousy when Sorenson John Wayned his way on to the scene, to say nothing of the sheer disbelief and indignation he’d felt upon learning that <em>he</em>—that<em> clown—</em>had walked away from <em>her. </em>With the absolute emptiness he’d felt watching her walk away from him, knowing he had no one but himself to blame, the truth that it was love at first sight had surfaced, and the pain was shocking. </p>
    <p>So he’d told himself again that he was done—forever and ever, Amen, <em>done</em>—being in love, and with good reason. Love, inevitably, brought pain, and he was so over that. </p>
    <p>And he’d spent a year cultivating his image as an utter rascal, who’d happily undertake a tumble with her, should she find herself so inclined—no messy, emotional strings attached. He’d spent a year pretending that he lived for nothing more than the certainty that he’d have his prize—he’d wear her down, and in the end, she’d be thoroughly glad that he had. </p>
    <p>He’d spent a year playing at all that, keeping the truth at bay. And for his trouble, he’d stumbled on to another kiss with another Dudley Do-Right, because for some damned reason, Rebel Bex not withstanding, that had seemed to be her type. And the things he’d pulled after that—the way he’d whipsawed from geuinely trying to win her away to sauntering off with Gina so that she would know what she was missing—he still dies a little inside every time he thinks of all that.</p>
    <p>Because it’s been a mess since then on, honesty. It’s been a mess. From Gina to not Gina, from Josh to … not Josh, and smack in the middle of that the question he’ll carry to his grave—what might it have changed if he’d simply told her he loved her that night in her apartment. What might they have averted if he’d picked up the gauntlet she’d thrown—<em>What about you, Rick?</em>— and told her in no uncertain terms that he had loved her from that exact first moment at the book party?</p>
    <p>It has never been an easy truth—never. He has sat with it, alone in one way or another, each and every summer that he has known her. And now, it has hardly been any time at all since he has had to sit alone with it for the most sustained, painful stretch of his life, utterly unable to push it away, explain it way, live in the shelter of his delusions about being done with love. It’s hardly been any time at all since the cryptic conversation on the swings, where she said—he <em>thinks </em>she said—that she might not remember, but she knows, and there’s hope.  </p>
    <p>It feels like there’s been nothing to do but wait since then, nothing to do but mark time. But in his more honest moments, he knows it’s not simply that. It’s work on his end, just as it is on hers. It’s learning to run headlong at the fact that he loves her—for real this time—and accepting that this is going to hurt, often and for the rest of his life, because love requires that. It requires vulnerability and offering up and risk and he is … working on that. </p>
    <p>He’s working on that when Serena Kaye sashays into his life, the temptation to end all temptations. Because he is single, in theory. Because Serena Kaye is interested and precisely  his speed, historically. Because she—Kate—has staked no claim on him, technically. And when she is suddenly the one stumbling upon a kiss, things are not just complicated, they’re impossible—<em>impossible. </em></p>
    <p>Serena is the safe choice. She is the <em>nuke it from orbit and save yourself </em>choice, and he could be done being in love. He could be safe and … reasonably satisfied, and no one looking on at the situation could say he had done a damned thing wrong. </p>
    <p>But he doesn’t want to be safe, and as it turns out, he seems to be too far gone to be good to anyone for one-night-stand purposes—for once-in-awhile-night-stand purposes. </p>
    <p>So Serena Kaye sashays out of his life and Kate is made bold by recent events and it’s happy ever after, right? </p>
    <p>It is, in large part. She—Kate—is flirty and shy in irresistible combination. She is imperious and solicitous and, beneath it all, a little scared. She has some intermittent rabbit pulse going, and a part of him that’s a little mean—that feels a little hard done by—is glad about that, except not really, because he’s scared, too. </p>
    <p>He’s <em>so </em>scared by all of this that it’s hard to enjoy what’s pretty inarguably a date that she’s taken him on. It’s hard not to feel on the verge of doing something catastrophically stupid to save himself the pain. </p>
    <p>It’s hard, but it’s not impossible. He does enjoy it. So does she, right up to the point that it’s time to argue about the check, and things kick into high gear.</p>
    <p>“You’re destitute, Castle.” She’s twisting around in her seat trying to catch the waiter’s attention, but the kid is terrible, and it’s no mean feat. “I assume you’re going to have to ride the rails after this, so the least I can do is make sure you do it on a full stomach.” </p>
    <p>“Fine,” he says, playing up the surrender. “I’ll go powder my nose, then.” </p>
    <p>He slips from the booth before she can say anything. He hunts down their paper-hatted, clip-on-bow-tie-wearing bundle of resentment and moves to settle the tab quickly before she arrests the two of them. He reaches for his wallet … and comes up empty. He turns the inside pocket of his sport coat out—like a cartoon hobo—in utter disbelief. </p>
    <p><br/>He pivots, orienting immediately to her on pure instinct and sees her at the counter, pushing bills back across it to the nominally older teenager who is obviously the responsible party for the night. He drifts toward her, seething, delighting, <em>loving </em>her with all he’s got. And she waits, the magnet pulling him in, grinning, holding up his wallet in triumph. </p>
    <p>“Be more careful with that.” With a brisk flip of his lapel, she drops the wallet back in his inside pocket. “No telling what someone might get up to if they got their hands on that.” </p>
    <p>He abuses her with utter good cheer all the way to the corner where it’s time for them to part ways. She struts alongside him, crowing and enjoying her coup to the fullest. They slow their steps in unison. They linger under the streetlight, but it’s late. It’s late. </p>
    <p>“Well,” he’s the one to say, “I guess I’d better get home and pack that bindle.” </p>
    <p>“Guess you’d better,” she agrees, smiling down at the sidewalk. She pauses and gives him a sideways look, as if she’s about to say something more. She changes her mind, though. She presses her lips together and he sees her change her mind before she says simply, “Try to hold on to that wallet, Castle.” </p>
    <p>He does. He makes his way home with his fingers curled around his lapel and his palm braced over the weight of it in his inside pocket. There’s something about the parting admonition—something about the teasing <em>you never know</em> that she tossed his way back at Remi’s. So he holds on to it, and by the end, he’s rushing—into the building, up the stairs, into the loft, and into the comparatively safe confines of his bedroom. </p>
    <p>He flips open the wallet, prepared to ransack it absolutely in search of a clue. He doesn’t have to, though. The disturbance is immediately obvious. A business card is out of place—her business card, soft and creased with handling, has been extracted from one of the deepest recesses and tucked defiantly in one of the outermost slots. </p>
    <p>He pulls it out with his heart pounding and his stomach doing adolescent, so-totally-in-love loop-de-loops. He flips the card over to trace her name–the signature he’d insisted on so that <em>his </em>card would be better than the one she’d slipped to Alex Conrad to drive him crazy. He flips the card over, and there beneath the bold strokes of her name, an addition: <em>XOXOXO. </em></p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A/N: Another thing I'm reposting from Tumblr. So dumb and gross. </p></blockquote></div></div>
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